Knotting the Hunter
Twenty feet away Noah's already on a knee, bow up before the dirt's even settled, because staying down isn't in him, and he puts a silver bolt into the thing's wrist joint at a range where he does not miss.
He doesn't miss.
It doesn't matter.
The bolt hits bone and skips off into the dark like he shot a highway overpass.
The skull drops through the canopy to look at what tickled it, close now, filling the space between the trees, and Noah, my hunter, my brilliant lunatic, is already reloading.
"NOAH, MOVE!"
The hand sweeps.
He makes it half a step.
The edge of one finger catches him mid-dive. Just the edge. Just a clip.
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